Hinterland g-2

by James Clemens

  She began to wonder at the wisdom of this adventure. She had believed the warden had all of Tashijan ablaze, placing much security in the abundant flames. But now they had ventured beyond lamp and torch.

  Her feet slowed.

  Now it was Kytt’s determination that dragged her forward, their roles reversed. He straightened from examining a scuff in the dust and waved her to follow.

  Turning a corner, they saw flickering light, fiery and welcome.

  Kytt warned her to proceed cautiously. He pointed to his eyes, then down to his footprints in the dust. He wanted her to step where he stepped, so as not to alert their quarry.

  But as they slipped closer, it was plain that Master Orquell was lost to all but the flames he had stoked in a cold hearth in an empty room. From down the hallway, they caught glimpses of him through a broken door, limned in firelight, features aglow.

  He sat on his knees, rocking back and forth.

  One arm reached out and sprinkled something across the flames. Sparks flew higher and a sound escaped with them, not unlike the flutter of a raven’s wings. Laurelle wrinkled her nose at the stench of the smoke in the hall. She caught a whiff of something rotted and foul behind the woodsmoke. Perhaps brimstone.

  Then Orquell’s voice reached her as he rocked.

  “Your will is my own, mistress. Show me what I must see.”

  Laurelle shifted. Orquell leaned near the flames, close enough that she was surprised the old man’s eyes didn’t boil in their sockets. He stared long-then a keening wail escaped his throat.

  “No…”

  She reached out and found Kytt’s hand. He clasped hers tight.

  Orquell finally rocked back away from the fire again, almost falling in a panicked scramble. He tossed a fistful of something at the fire, and the flames instantly doused.

  As darkness fell, a few last words were whispered.

  “I will do your bidding, mistress. I am in all ways your servant.”

  Kytt edged Laurelle back with him, still holding her hand. They retreated, stepping carefully. Now it was their turn to flee. Kytt guided them unerringly and swiftly. Once well enough away, certain they were out of earshot, Laurelle slowed him.

  “We must not let the master out of sight when he’s away from Hesharian. I’ll inform Delia. She’ll get word to the castellan.” Laurelle’s confidence grew as they returned to the well-lit passages. “We’ll have to dog his steps. Watch him after he leaves the fieldroom.”

  Kytt nodded.

  There was no need to argue.

  Both could guess the mistress to whom the master bowed as a servant.

  The witch below.

  Mirra.

  Kathryn faced the window with her sword. Behind the heavy drapery that closed off her balcony, the scratching had gone silent. She heard Gerrod strain, fighting his locked armor, its alchemies bled of Grace.

  “Go,” he said between gritted teeth. “Leave me here.”

  Cold permeated the entire room now, misting white her heated breath, freezing her cheeks. The hearth’s embers had gone black.

  Then glass tinkled, breaking and falling from paned frames. The drapes billowed toward her as a fierce gust swirled into the room through the broken window. Cold enough to make Kathryn gasp.

  Backing a step to guard Gerrod, she drank the shadows. Her cloak swept to either side, its edges blurring with the darkness. She wrapped the power through her, making the flow of time slow.

  Past the billow of the drapery, the balcony was shadowed by the towers that framed the courtyard. The sun had risen to a gray slate morning, casting enough light to reveal a dark shape outside her window.

  Then the drapes fell again.

  Behind them, wood cracked with a loud snap of latch and lintel. The bottom hem of the drapery stirred in the breezes, then flapped wide. Through the part, it crept into her chambers.

  It came low, naked, knuckling down on one arm, cocking one eye toward her, then the other. It bore wings like a bat, skeletal and sinewy. It was bare of any hair or fur, except for a thin mane trailing from crown down the spine of its back. Its manhood hung limp and hairless.

  “Wind wraith,” Gerrod said behind her.

  Except Kathryn knew this was no mere Grace-bred man. He had been ilked, too. More beast than man any longer. Drool seeped from its snarled lips. Nostrils pinched open and closed.

  Eyes found her buried in the shadows and fixed to her.

  In the gloom of her chambers, with all flames guttered, she recognized the glint of Grace, but not the purity to which she was accustomed, more an oily gleam.

  Kathryn prepared to dispatch the creature. How many more were out there? She had to keep Gerrod protected. But the wraith approached no closer. It hissed at her, still crouched low, in some bestial parody of a bow.

  Then it spoke-something she had believed was beyond the ilk-beast’s ability. Its voice trilled out its throat, mouth barely moving, sounds shaped from somewhere beyond lips and tongue.

  “Castellllan Vaillll…”

  She stiffened, sensing a dark intelligence in her presence.

  “Come. To parlllley. In town. Blllackhorse tavernhouse. In one belllll.”

  Kathryn found her own voice, ringing it clear. “Who requests this parley?”

  “Lord Ullllf willlls you to speak to him.” The creature shifted to its other knuckle, cocking its other eye toward her. “Onllly you. Come alllone.”

  Despite the terror of the moment and the twisted messenger, Kathryn could not keep a spark of curiosity from flaring. Still, she was no fool.

  As if sensing her hesitation, the creature bowed its head. “No harm willll come.” It sank away, pushing back through drape and broken glass.

  Then was gone.

  The drapes fluttered as it took wing from her balcony.

  She waited a full breath in the dark, cold room. Finally she straightened, but she did not sheath her blade. She swung to her door, sidestepping Gerrod.

  “No, Kathryn,” he moaned in his frozen suit, his voice echoing in his helmet.

  “I must go,” she said, both apologetic and certain. “I will send word to Master Fayle. To replenish the air in your alchemies. It won’t be long.”

  She pulled her door open and slid out. She considered the rashness of her decision, but she did not dismiss it. She had waited for days, been cast aside by Argent, and bided her time while the tower dallied with its defenses. Something more needed to be done. Even if it meant putting one’s own neck on the block.

  “Kathryn!” Gerrod called to her, hollow and angry. “It’s a-”

  She snapped the door closed, but not before hearing his last word. Though it failed to sway her, she did not doubt it.

  “-trap!”

  A TWISTED ROOT

  Horrors surrounded them.

  Brant did not know where to look. The mists had risen into an arched roof overhead, lit from below by the fiery flippercraft. Some alchemy in the oiled arrows had sped the conflagration. The flames had already burned through the outer hull and exposed the inner ribbings. Smoke choked upward, darkening the mists further. Heat chased Brant and the others up the slope of the hollow.

  Everywhere stakes sprouted from the weedy ground. Skewered upon their fire-blackened points were the heads of hundreds of his fellow people. The poles seemed to shiver in the flickering glow of the flaming flippercraft.

  Brant shied from looking too closely at the faces, but they were inescapable. He caught glimpses of mouths stretched open in silent screams, of gouged eyes and bloated tongues, of seeping wound and sloughing skin. Black flies rose in silent swirls as the fires stirred the air.

  He did not resent their feast. It was the great turn of the forest, the returning to the loam of all that had risen from it. It was the Way taught to all in Saysh Mal.

  Only here was no mere decay of leaf or a gutted beast’s entrails left to feed the forest-nor even a loved one’s body gently interred beneath root and rock.

  This was slaughter and
cruelty, a mockery of the Way.

  “Many children here,” Rogger muttered, sickened. “Babes, from the look of a few.”

  “And elders,” Tylar said.

  Krevan followed with Calla. “Culling the weak,” he grunted.

  “But why?” Dart asked. She walked in Malthumalbaen’s shadow, the giant’s arm over her shoulder, hugged near his thigh.

  “There is no why here,” Lorr said sourly. “Only madness.”

  Brant risked a glance at a few of the stakes. He saw the others were right about the dead. A gray-bearded head was impaled to the left, and the next two stakes bore smaller skulls, a boy and a girl, a brother and sister perhaps.

  As he turned away, he realized he knew the graybeard. The man had been the great-father to a fellow hunter. He was recognizable by the pair of brass coins braided into his beard. The elder had come occasionally to Brant’s home, his beard jingling merrily, to share some pear wine with his father, swapping stories well into the night. Brant knew little else about him, not even his name. Somehow that made it even worse. A death with no name, only a memory.

  The group slowed near a mossy boulder that shouldered out of the slope. The stakes thinned here, and the travelers were far enough away from the burning conflagration to escape the worst of the blistering heat. Still they could not escape the stench.

  Brant glanced below and saw that a few of the stakes closest to the flippercraft had caught fire, burning like torches, fueled by wood and the fat of flesh. Shuddering, he turned his back on the sight and stared up toward the lip of the hollow.

  The forest waited, dark, tall, and cool. It stared back at him, neither grieving nor caring. It was the face of the Huntress. Brant felt a fury to match the flames below. He wished the fire would spread to the woods, to cleanse and purify the horror, to scorch it down to the roots of the mountains.

  A hand touched his shoulder, startling him into a wince.

  But fingers closed with a firming grip and held tight.

  He glanced up to find the regent at his side. Tylar stared toward the forest. “They are not to blame.”

  Brant did not know what he meant. “Who-?”

  He nodded upward.

  From the forest’s edge, they stepped out of the shadows and into the firelight. Hunters. A hundred score. Stripped to breechclout, the women bare-breasted. They carried bows, strings taut, arrows notched.

  The Huntress was baring her fangs.

  “Can you smell it?” Lorr asked, nose high, eyes glowing. “The arrows. Poisoned with venom from the jinx bat. One nick will kill.”

  Though Brant didn’t have the wyld tracker’s nose, he had eyes sharp enough to sense movement past the first line of bowmen. More hunters stalked the depths. But his eyes were not keen enough to spot what Tylar had noted earlier-not until it was brought to his attention.

  “Their mouths,” Krevan said.

  Squinting closer, Brant noted that the hunters’ lips and chins were stained black, as if they had been drinking oil.

  Brant knew it hadn’t been oil.

  “She’s draughted them with her own blood,” Tylar said. “Burned them with Grace. They are in thrall to her as certain as any seersong.”

  Brant now understood the regent’s words a moment before. They are not to blame. There was only one to blame for all the horrors here.

  As if reading his thoughts, the Huntress again spoke to them from her distant balcony, lost in mist and smoke. Her words were calm, spoken with a strange dispassion.

  “You will come to me, stripped of weapons. You will bend your knee. Your strength will be added to the forest.”

  Her statements were not requests, nor even demands. Her voice held a simple certainty, as if she were merely stating that the sun would rise in the morning.

  Tylar kept his grip on Brant. He leaned down and whispered in his ear. “Even if it destroys her, you must rip the roots of the seersong that ensnares her sanity. Can you do this?”

  “What about the others?” He nodded to the black-lipped forest of hunters that waited with poisoned bows, bound to the Huntress.

  Tylar did not offer any gentle words, only the truth. “I don’t know.” He faced Brant and asked again, “Even so, can you do this?”

  Gripping the stone at his throat, Brant glanced back at the stakes bearing aloft the graybeard and the two children, then met Tylar’s gaze. He nodded.

  Tylar gave Brant’s shoulder another squeeze, then released him. Ahead the hunters parted and shifted into two columns. They formed a deadly gauntlet down which they were meant to walk.

  “Stay close together,” Tylar warned and set off, leading the way.

  “And don’t let any of the arrows scratch you,” Rogger added, bolstering Lorr’s warning.

  Brant followed beside Dart, both now shadowed by the giant. As Brant approached the forest, he again pictured flames spreading and burning through jungle and wood. While he had wished it only a moment ago, now he knew it was his hand that must set torch to the tinder, to potentially destroy the realm, from the top down. And it wouldn’t be only wood that would be consumed.

  He stared at the line of hunters.

  Can you do this? he asked himself. I must.

  Dart glanced to him. He read the fear in her eyes. She reached out a hand. He gratefully took it, not caring how it made him look.

  As a group, they climbed free of the valley of stakes. The fires below scattered ashes skyward, a bonfire to the dead.

  At last, they reached the rim of the hollow. The ancient pompbonga-kee trees rose in a dark bower over their heads. Below, the line of hunters waited. They headed down the gauntlet of bows. The deadly path led unerringly toward the oldest of the pompbonga-kees. The lowest level of the castillion could be seen entombed within its thick branches.

  Closer yet, the tree’s massive roots rose as mighty knees of bark and knot. Between them gaped the entrance to the castillion. And standing in the gap stood a tall hunter, thickly shouldered, naked to breechclout, lips stained. He bore a wreath of leaves upon his crown, marking him as the supreme Hunter of the Way, the latest to win the great challenges.

  But what challenges had he won during these maddened days?

  The sentinel’s arms were bloody to the elbows. He reeked of death and pain. His eyes were aglow with the ravings of the Huntress, an echo of her corruption.

  Still, Brant did not fail to recognize who stood as sentinel.

  He pictured a boy running wild through the woods, breathless, barely able to sustain his excitement at his uncle’s entry into the great contest. It had been the last time he had laid eyes on the boy-now a young man.

  “Marron…”

  Those piercing eyes found him-and for a moment, Brant saw a mirror of his own recollection. But instead of familiarity and lost friendship, all he saw was ferocity and ruthlessness in the other’s eyes.

  Lips peeled back in a cold smile, revealing teeth filed to points.

  This was the true face of Saysh Mal now.

  Dart felt Brant stiffen beside her. His fingers clamped tighter on hers.

  “Abandon your blades,” the other warned between sharpened teeth. “Defy and you will be winnowed now upon her blessed stakes.”

  Dart refused to glance at the field of the dead. There was no doubt where they would end up if they refused.

  The men were made to unbuckle their belts and drop their sheathed swords. Rogger unhooked his crossed straps of daggers. Calla shook off her wrist sheaths. Tylar lowered Rivenscryr into the same pile, half-burying it under Rogger’s daggers.

  Dart watched Tylar release the blade. He looked almost relieved, unburdened. Afterward, he allowed himself to be searched, arms out. Hands passed over her own body. Finally they were permitted to proceed inside.

  But as Lorr attempted to follow, a pair of crossed spears blocked him from stepping over the threshold. Another spear pointed at Malthumalbaen.

  “None of the Grace-bred may foul her door. You will remain below to await her bidding
.” Marron looked the two men up and down, with undisguised distaste. “If you are lucky enough, she may permit you to live. To be a dog at her feet-or perhaps a beast to pull her wagon.”

  The last was said pointedly at the giant.

  Malthumalbaen took a threatening step forward, but Tylar held him back with a raised palm. “Remain here,” he said. “Keep a guard on our weapons.”

  The giant seemed to barely hear him, glaring down at Marron. Lorr slipped between them. “I’ll keep my eyes open and ears up,” the tracker said.

  From the way Lorr studied the hunters, he plainly intended to seek some weakness in those who stood guard, to find a breach through which they might break.

  Marron also made Rogger pause. “What’s that you carry?” he asked, nodding to the satchel.

  “A gift for the Huntress. I heard she lost something. Thought she might want it back.”

  Marron’s brow furrowed. He waved for Rogger to show him.

  With a shrug, the thief revealed what he had stolen. He flipped back a bit of bile-caked cloth to reveal yellow bone. An empty socket and corner of upper jaw leered out.

  Brant gasped, slipping slightly, fingers clutching to his neck. Dart still held his other hand. She knew his stone responded to the skull; now she felt it, too. His palm burned with a feverish touch. He squeezed tight, almost crushing bone.

  Satisfied, Rogger flipped back the cloth, covering it again. The heat in Brant’s palm immediately extinguished, like a flame blown out. His legs firmed under him. As he was half-hidden by the giant, no one seemed to note his faltering. All attention had been on the skull.

  Marron’s brow remained furrowed. “Give it here,” he said warily.

  Rogger shoved the skull inside and held out the laden pouch.

  “I’ll take it to her,” Marron said in a slightly petulant tone.

  In those words, Dart heard the boy behind the man. She suspected the hunter sought to secure the skull less from caution than from a desire to please his mistress if the gift should be truly appreciated.

  With matters settled, they proceeded inside. Led by Marron and surrounded on all sides, the party entered the tree and began the long climb up into the mists.